"Non lo so," Cesare muses, idly looking over the heads of the pub's patrons. He's already got his finger halfway up to his nose before he remembers that, no, picking his nose, just... NO. "I don't know where he went. Mayhap he's eaten out his heart." In truth, he vaguely remembers some spectacularly awkward fumbling, and too much alcohol, and desperation sour on their breaths, but he has no idea where Alex might have run to.
A group of newcomers at the door loudly make their arrival known, exchanging bellowed greetings and whooping, but Cesare still thinks he's heard Iago correctly. Speculatively, he bites his lower lip, but he can't help the heat rising up and above his collar. "Er," he says. Oh, smooth. Very smooth, Cesare. Quick, on to safer wate-
"Yes, well. Mine had healed, but not... quite. And never enough not to give me grief. Like Xellos's leg, if you will. Umm, do you... could I bother you for more wine?"